


Silence Cast to Night Skies

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire





	Silence Cast to Night Skies

John can't keep his eyes from constantly shifting to his rear view, checking behind for the Impala's headlights.  
   
Dean's still following. Good.  
   
It's a simple hunt, a salt and burn, easy enough to track the spirit down, but it's a revenant, and Dean's been off his game, he's lost a few steps since Sam's been gone. Most guys who are accustomed to working as a team react differently, they make sloppy mistakes, assume that someone is watching out for them, protecting them, even when there isn't. John knows that's not how Dean loses steps. Dean unlocks the door holding back all his hurt and rage and pours it into the hunt, devouring the kill, losing a little bit of himself every time.  
   
John knows he can't handle losing Dean, too. Its bad enough how _quiet_ Dean has become, he doesn't want to see his own emptiness reflected in Dean's hungry eyes. John shakes his head in wonder. Dean was always the noise, the constant chatter of his life. Sam was always the quiet one.  
   
Funny how once the quiet one is gone you've never heard the silence so loud. 

~*~  
   
No point stashing the cars. Cemetery's in the middle of nowhere, hiding off a hiking trail easily 50 miles from the nearest town. They walk four miles in from the dirt road. John moves with ease, practiced and alert, he focuses on the feel of Dean right in the rear of his radar, and he ignores the absence of the second blip on his internal screen. _Focus_. 

Dean's eyes are predatory, his movements smooth and graceful, every step is planted with a purpose. John wants to tell him that it's ok to relax, but those are just words, words said by fathers who don't know the truth. Dean is a hunter, like it or not, and a man, too, finally - by society's standards anyway, but John knows Dean's been a man for years. Started working on it right after _child_ , skipped _kid_ and _teen_ altogether.

John drags his thoughts back to the hunt with difficulty. Corporeal spirits are probably one of his least favorite things, right after _dog bites_ and _bee stings_ and the fact that Mary used to love that movie, and the hills surrounding them as they hike remind him of just how much she used to laugh as she sang those songs. He always tries to be ready for anything, and so their pistols are loaded with iron rounds, they each have a container of salt, and since this particular spirit has a solid form, John also thought to bring his favorite knife, a Bowie, and it feels cold and smooth against the small of his back as they move.

Dean carries a shovel, and it rests casually over his left shoulder as he strides through the underbrush. There is always one less shovel than there are people. One person has to keep watch while the others dig. One less shovel, one less person, twice the danger. John winces, feels the loss all over again. It's not like he didn't want Sam to have a life, to be his own person, to be _safe_ \- in fact, it's all he's ever wanted, for all of them - but the fact is, Sam's _not_ safe, Sam's not here where John can _protect_ him.

Dean's face in unreadable in the afternoon light. Suddenly, John realizes that they've reached their destination. Dean regards him flatly. "We here?" John just nods. Dean shrugs in response and falls in behind John, the two of them moving in tandem off of the old hiking trail. The dense underbrush slows their progress, and the old cemetery is well hidden in the overgrowth. They reach the tombstones much, much later than John likes. They fan out, Dean checks the North side, John checks the South, searching for the right grave marker. John's anxiety grows with every step as the sun moves closer and closer to the horizon. He doesn't want to be here after dark. Taking on the spirit directly isn't in his plans.

Finally, Dean calls him over. The grave marker of one _Lucas Turner_ stares back at him, entangled in 80 years worth of weeds and decay. It's time to put the bastard down. John shares a look with his son, sees his own sentiment reflecting in Dean's green eyes. No more missing hikers.

Dean knows the drill. He drops the backpack full of emergency supplies on the ground at the base of an old, withered tree, swings down the shovel, and begins to dig. 

~*~

John's nerves begin to stretch as the first shadows of the night sky reach across the valley. He put a circle of salt around the grave site a while ago, because if the spirit shows, Dean will need protection to keep digging, and just when John is about to come down on Dean for taking so long, he hears the _crack_ of splintered wood and knows that Dean is finished.

He doesn't have to ask if Dean needs help, he can hear sound of salt being poured over the remains. Dean's hands appear at the edge of the hole he's dug, casting around for the can of accelerant.  
   
John is watching Dean, lost in thought, wondering how many times they've done this, and in the dark of the lengthening shadows of evening he misses one detail, one shadow among the others.  
   
There is a _rush_ of motion and the revenant plows into John from behind, shoving him roughly as it grabs the knife from its resting place. The spirit makes no noise, it's just _on him_ and then it's _not_ , and it skirts around the circle protecting the grave site and turns to face him, a cold, leering smile on its face. 

They stare at each other for a moment, both waiting for the other to make the first move. John's hand tightens on the trigger of his pistol, and he whispers a word of warning to his son in a slow, steady voice, knowing that Dean will know that tone, that Dean will finish the job.  
   
" _Dean_."  
   
John hears the liquid splashing out into the grave, and from the corner of his eye he sees Dean climbing out, holding his body low to the ground as he reaches for his lighter.

The revenant decides it has waited long enough.  
   
The spirit rushes to its right, brandishes the flashing blade, and for a split second instinct takes over, and John glances left to check on _Sam_ , because these monsters, they always go for Sam, for _Sammy_ , and that split second is enough for the revenant to let the knife fly.  
   
"Dad!" Dean's startled yell echoes through the night, and John feels hands shoving him, hears the sickening _thud_ of the knife connecting, hears Dean yell and sees him fall away.  
   
The spirit is on Dean before John can even _think_ , it reaches to grip the handle, grabs hold, and pulls the blade from its resting place in Dean's side diagonally across his torso, splitting him from hip to shoulder. 

John rolls, lunges for the lighter, flicks it on and throws it into the grave. The revenant stands high over his fallen son, knife raised to finish the job, and John's not sure if he was fast enough, but just as the knife begins to fall the spirit _screams_ and goes up in a brilliant burst of flames.  
   
Without a second's span of thought to the writhing pile of ashes, John rushes to Dean's side, skidding to a halt in the tall grass.  
   
"Dad? You ok?" Dean is looking for him, not daringto move his body, but his eyes search John all over before he finally rests his head on the ground in relief.  
   
John nods wordlessly, knows that Dean is worried about _him_ when he should be worried about _himself_. He knows his son just saved his life. "Fine. Let me see." John pulls aside the flaps of Dean's jacket and stifles a hiss. He tries to tell himself it's not that bad, but Dean's been flayed _open_ , and John figures if he doesn't panic, that will be enough of a miracle right there.   
   
And of course it's four miles to the cars, and 50 after that, and John knows he can carry Dean, he can stash the Impala and drive to the nearest hospital, but Dean's blood is _everywhere_ and Dean's skin is _pale_ and Dean needs help _now_. 

John pulls Dean over to the graveside, where the flames lessen the chill of the night air. Dean will go into shock from blood loss, and if his temperature drops too much, John will have hypothermia to deal with.  
   
Dean's jaw clenches and he breathes hard, _in and out_ , through his nose, glazed eyes focusing in a valiant effort, but he never cries out, he doesn't betray how badly he is hurting. Instead he moves to help John, shrugging out of his jacket, lips pressed into a tight, thin line against the pain.  
   
Dean's tone is light and playful, but his voice has a hard, painful edge as he finally draws enough breath to ask "Ok, hit me - how bad's it look?"  
   
John unbuttons what's left of Dean's over shirt, grabs the shredded t-shirt in both hands and easily rips it away. He can feel the color draining instantly out of his face as his heart jumps to his throat. And he knows, he _knows_ this is the worst he's ever seen it on a hunt.

The puncture - no, the _gaping hole_ where the knife entered Dean's side is bubbling like a freshwater spring, and it's too close to his son's middle to tell if the knife nicked anything other than muscle, and if it did, John knows Dean could be septic in a matter of mere minutes. Closing that part of the wound is just too dangerous. The vertical laceration running across Dean's ribs and heart is deep, the muscles are split wide open, and the bright red of well oxygenated blood stains his son's skin. The flow is steady and unrelenting as Dean struggles for every breath.   
   
There isn't nearly enough suture materiel in the pack to stop something like this from bleeding his son dry.  
   
And John's lost men in the field, seen wounds that would turn a person’s stomach, heard men gurgle and choke on their own blood as they died, and those men were soldiers, and so is Dean, but Dean is _his_ , and this time is different, because this time it's John's _fault_.  
   
Dean's fit body condition is the only thing saving his life right now, but muscle _bleeds_ , and John is watching his son's life force seep into the ground, and he hasn't been this scared in years. His body freezes, and he can't figure out _why he doesn't know what to do_.  
   
But then it clicks. Usually, John can't freeze, he has to be the one to act, he has to step into action because Sam _isn_ 't, he has to tell Sam what to do, to get _Sam_ to act for his brother.  
   
Suddenly it's like Sam is _there_ , Sam is leaning over Dean, trying to stop the blood bubbling up between his splayed fingers, looking up at John with panic behind his eyes but with iron determination in his voice.  
   
 _"Dad! Are you listening to me? Get me something for pressure. Needle drivers. Gauze. Sutures - if we slow the bleeding we can get him to the car. He needs fluids, we need something to flush this, are you LISTENING to me? Dad!"_

And John does listen, because he doesn't care right now if he's hallucinating or not, he only knows that _Dean's_ job is to save _Sam_ , and _Sam's_ job is to save _Dean_ , and if anyone knows what to do, it's _Sam_ , even if he isn't _here_.   
   
John turns away, goes and grabs the emergency pack from underneath the tree where Dean had dropped it before. He's back in an instant, and his shaking hands have trouble with the zipper as he opens it, and he reaches inside for a small vial and a sterile syringe. First things first.   
   
John hears Dean's whispered, "No," before he even gets the vial out of the bag.  
   
"Dean, you have to let me give you something." John plunges the syringe deep into the vial, liquid Morphine pulling back with a rush of bubbles. John always knows his boys weights, knows their dosages. And he knows Dean hates taking anything for pain, but this isn't about pain, it's about _survival_.  
   
"Dad, no." Dean's face glistens with sweat, and his body shakes as shock sets in. John hates the pleading tone in his son's voice, but this isn't an argument he's prepared to have.  
   
"Dean, listen to me. I need to slow your heart rate." Blood is everywhere, blood on his hands, his own _son's_ blood, and he rejects Dean's response before it can cross his lips. "That's an order. Now hold still." He hates using _that_ tone, the one that _always_ gets him the response he's looking for, but he's not prepared for the unguarded look in Dean's eyes as he obeys. Rebellion. Determination ... _fear_?  
   
Dean holds out his arm to John, and through gritted teeth, he responds the way John knows he will. " _Yessir_."  
   
And suddenly John knows why Dean's resisting. Dean can tell how bad it is, he can see it in John’s eyes. He doesn’t want to be pulled under by the drug. Dean doesn't want to miss his final moments. 

John hesitates with the syringe, pauses just above the vein. His eyes meet Dean's, his own asking regretfully for permission, and his son's suddenly masking his fear _too well_. Dean swallows hard and nods his consent. John holds off the vein. "Dean, listen -"  
   
"It's fine. I'm fine." Dean closes his eyes, turns his head away. "I'll tell Alice you say hi, alright?" John doesn't want this to be it, he doesn't want this to be how they say goodbye. He casts for words, but there are none, he can't _find_ any, they all _went_ , went with Sam when he left. But then Dean peers up at him one last time, and his eyes speak volumes, filling in the spaces where the words used to be. _It's ok, Dad. I trust you. Don't let me down._  
   
John nods and hits the vein, depressing the plunger smoothly. Dean's body goes still before he even finishes administering the drug. John's mask of bravery shatters into a thousand pieces, and tears fill his eyes as he searches frantically for the supplies he'll need.

~*~

Less than twenty precious minutes later, far too long an amount of time, things are as good as they are going to get in the field. John surveys his handiwork. Hurried but surgical quality sutures close the better part Dean's open muscles, but the gut wound needs more help than he can provide. John ties the arms of Dean's jacket around his son's waist. It covers the wound, securing the pressure bandage that John fashioned to slow the bleeding.  
   
The night is much too dark for John to risk any further treatment. He has to get Dean out of the woods, _now_. He slings the backpack with the rest of the medicine onto his back, secures the shoulder straps, and gently lifts his son in his arms. Dean feels too light, and his skin is hot against John's chest; John can feel it burning through his shirt, but Dean's not sweating anymore, and his pulse feels faint. John shoots off a prayer to ... someone, and starts walking.  
   
He leaves everything else behind.  
   
Finding the old hiking trail in the dark is a task that would prove difficult for most men. The rolling hills and dense vegetation of the forest are disorienting, and the spaces between the trees are narrow. Branches reach out to John, brushing against Dean, and for an irrational moment John tenses, and he can't shake the feeling that the forest is trying to take his son away. He brushes the feeling off. If there is anything else lying in the shadows of these woods, there is nothing he can do about it. 

John grits his teeth and moves forward, clutching Dean protectively. He finds the trail with much less trouble than he anticipated. He immediately checks his cell phone. No range. Half stumbling, half feeling his way by memory alone, he hurries towards the road. A four mile hike was a piece of cake in his service days, but time on the road has softened him. His instincts are sharp as ever; maybe more than ever, but stress and long years of tracking Mary’s killer, protecting his sons … _fighting_ with Sam … have all taken their toll, and John feels every motion as he moves, sweat beading on his forehead as he bears Dean’s dead weight. 

John shifts Dean in his arms, pressing his lips into the fringe of Dean's short hair, like he used to do when he would rock Dean to sleep ... Before. 

Dean stirs, mumbles something, and John leans closer to hear. Dean thrashes weakly in John's arms, turning his head, his closed eyes searching behind the lids for something in the darkness. " _Sam_...?" 

John's heart breaks. He knows Dean isn't thinking clearly, that the effects of the Morphine can cause altered reality. He knows Dean is feeling _Sam_ , Sam's arms wrapped around him, protecting him, but it’s not an altered reality, not really, because that's Sam's _job_ , that's what Sam _does_. John _doesn't_ , he hasn't held his sons in years, he trusts them to look to each other while he looks to the road, the hunt, _other_ victims out there. Trusts them to say to each other the things that he isn’t strong enough to say.

Dean moans, a shuddering sound, not a sound of physical pain but of deep anguish. “Sam, _don’t_. I said I was sorry.” He says, weakly clinging to John as if he’s trying to hold him back.

John speeds up his pace, frantic to get Dean to help before the rest of the Morphine wears off. Frantic to keep from hearing any more of Dean’s private thoughts. He’d been out, the day Sam went. He’d said those words, the final, condemning _words_ , and left. Left before Sam could, because he couldn’t bear watching Sam leave.Sometimes John thinks those were the last words he ever said at all. 

He’d thought Dean would tell him that things between the two of them, at least, were alright. He’d hoped that they would stay in touch in spite of him, in spite of his final failure, his one horrific mistake. _Don’t come back_. He’d always thought that no matter what happened, that they would be inseparable. But the days turned steadily into months, and still Dean said nothing. The phone never rang, and worry, pain and regret rolled into their lives like a fog, stifling everything, even Dean’s unstoppable spirit. 

Dean's thrashing eases and he falls back into a fitful sleep, and John rocks his son softly, tears winding slowly down his cheeks. His voice is gruff from lack of use, from the _silence_ that equals John plus Dean minus _Sam_. "I'm sorry dude," he croaks. "I am. _God, Dean_. I miss him, too."

John sees Dean’s eyes open, catches a glint of white reflected in the moonlight. Dean sounds confused and sluggish as he searches John out. “Dad?” he whispers. 

“Hey, Dean.” But the momentary lucidity is already gone, and Dean goes limp in his arms, breath shallow enough to be barely discernable. “No, no, come on …” John rests Dean carefully on the ground and checks the phone again.

One bar. 

It’s enough.

~*~

John clears the tree line just as the helicopter does. His muscles tremble with exhaustion, his back is on fire, and his hands are cramping, but it still takes three paramedics to pry Dean from his arms. He barely has to put together a cover story; plenty of hikers have been attacked lately near here; the response team is just amazed that someone got out alive. 

Dean has an I.V. catheter placed before the stretcher clears the chopper door, and they start transfusing him at an accelerated rate. They tell John he can’t ride, that there isn’t enough room, that they need their full staff on board to keep his son alive. One medic stays with him, offers to give him directions. The medic asked John which vehicle they’ll take. 

John strains to see Dean’s face as the bird takes flight. His son is pale and still, but his chest is rising and falling more smoothly now.

He knows Dean is a fighter. 

He heads for the Impala.

~*~

“You should get a motel, you look worse than I do,” Dean quips, smiling halfheartedly from the sterile, starchy white of the hospital sheets. 

“I seriously doubt that,” John retorts without closing his eyes. It’s probably true, but he figures he’s earned it; two days sleeping in a hospital chair will sometimes do that to a man. “Anyway, you’ll be trying to get out of here soon, and if I’m not here to tell you no, some poor nurse’ll get fired for releasing you.”

“Ha, very funny,” Dean says, but John doesn’t miss the flash of annoyance in his son’s eyes. He suppresses a grin. Yeah, he knows Dean. 

Dean’s been conscious for a few hours; long enough to ask _did we kill it_ and _will I at least get an awesome scar_ before demanding a cheeseburger with bacon, and since the blade that hit him managed to miss his vitals, the Doctor didn’t see why not, but now that the burger is gone, Dean is rapidly falling back into his semi – coma. 

John can see that Dean is hesitating, wanting to ask him something, but he knows Dean will hesitate forever. “What, Dean?” He prompts.

Dean fidgets uncomfortably with his sheets, refuses to look John in the eyes. “Did you – eh, it’s not important.”

John leans forward, gaze intense and searching. “Dean. What?”

“Did you, uh …” Dean closes his eyes, leans back onto the bed. John sees the look again, the same look he saw in the woods, just before he administered the Morphine. Dean slowly meets his gaze. “Did you call Sam?” He sounds hopeful and apologetic at the same time, and he looks so fragile lying there, John doesn’t know what to say.

He decides to tell the truth. No more silence, no more secrets. “Yeah, I did.” Dean stares at him, weighing his words carefully. Turns out John doesn’t have to tell the rest.

“He didn’t answer, did he?” Dean asks.

“No.” John says, and for once he allows the regret he feels inside to seep into his eyes, shows his son he’s not alone. “I’m sorry Dean, he didn’t.” Dean just nods, resignation flowing across his features as he melts wearily into the pillow. “Look, tell you what – when you get out of this place, let’s take a trip. Go check on him. You and me.”

Dean arches a surprised eyebrow. “He’d hate that, Dad.” Dean shakes his head. “Besides, he needs his space.”

“So we don’t tell him. We’ll get a look, check around – make sure he’s ok.” John needs Dean to know he’s not alone. They both screwed up royally, but just because you _screw_ up doesn’t mean you _give_ up on the people that you love. Even if they’ve given up on you.

A slow smile spreads across Dean’s pale face. “Ok, Dad.” He says. “Ok.” 

~*~

One month later they cross the Palo Alto limit for the first time. They treat it like a stakeout. They rent a car. They sneak and blend.

They get to see Sam.

And he’s happy. Happier than he’s been in years, and _laughing_ on top of it all. The way he used to laugh … Before.

And they watch quietly, they don’t disturb him, and they go as quickly as they came. They don’t talk about how much they both miss him.

But they barely clear town before Dean starts chattering away about this and that, reliving old hunts and going over plans for new ones, making jokes and fiddling with the radio, and John finds himself smiling at the noise.

The empty space is still there.

But at least the silence is gone.


End file.
